


A Ball by Any Other Name Is Just a Party

by missmichellebelle



Series: Princes Don't Marry Kitchen Boys [2]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Budding Love, Childhood Friends, Friendship, Kitchen Boy Mickey, M/M, Prince Ian, Princes & Princesses, Royalty, Servants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-03
Updated: 2015-05-03
Packaged: 2018-03-28 19:43:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3867493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmichellebelle/pseuds/missmichellebelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Ian is sixteen, Lip comes of age and, as tradition dictates, a ball is held to honor the occasion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Ball by Any Other Name Is Just a Party

**Author's Note:**

> I started working on this for the alternateshameless prompt royalty, and UGH because I'm finishing it like 10 minutes after the deadline I hate myself. but at least I'm posting some writing, amiright?
> 
> this got so long, and it still doesn't feel long enough. then again, this idea started as Mickey and Ian at a ball.
> 
> ...I may be a little obsessed with the new Cinderella movie right now, oops.

When Ian is sixteen, Lip comes of age and, as tradition dictates, a ball is held to honor the occasion. Not that Frank is keen on upholding the royal traditions, especially since these sorts of balls tend to herald the fact that a prince or princess is of marrying age and Frank is in _no rush_ to have any of his children married and in position to take his throne. But morale in the kingdom is low, and uprisings and riots throughout the lands have placed Frank’s kingship in jeopardy in other ways.

Only a fool could think that a ball to which the peasantry isn’t even invited would be enough to smooth things over, but, then again, Frank has always been a fool of a king.

It isn’t the first ball that Ian has ever attended, but it is the first one where he’ll be of a proper age to appreciate it. The last ball they had of this calibre had been Fiona’s own coming out ball, and Ian had been just twelve years at the time, more concerned with avoiding the erratic wrath of the King and not getting caught sneaking into the kitchens at night. And diplomatic balls, while still grand, were far too political for gallivanting around and making merry. They were more like formal meetings than they were a party meant almost solely for fun.

But Lip’s ball is exactly that.

Ian tries to tamp his excitement in the weeks leading up to the event, but as the palace prepares for guests from across the kingdom and neighboring ones as well, he can’t help but walk around with a bounce to his step.

“The way you’re skipping about the castle, you’d think it was your fucking party,” Mickey says one afternoon while they walk about the gardens. Their friendship has long since evolved from secret meetings in the kitchen after all the candles have gone out, although it does still entail Ian evading his valets and Mickey slipping away from the watchful eyes of the Steward and Head Maid. And it is still very much a secret, more for Mickey’s sake than for Ian’s. If it was to be found out, Ian would get a slap on the wrist and stricter rules he’d have to follow, but Mickey…

Well, they try not to talk about what might happen to Mickey.

“There’s nothing wrong with being excited, Mick,” Ian retorts, knocking their shoulders together, and Mickey gives him a shove. It’s not hard—even after years of friendship, there are still boundaries that Ian can’t get Mickey to cross no matter what he tries. “It’s my first _real_ ball, with people my age and dancing and staying up past that awful curfew the valets insist upon.”

“You do at least two of those things every night we hang out,” Mickey grumbles, and Ian shoots him a look. He randomly has the urge to ask Mickey to dance with him, right there in the garden, and feels his face heat up almost immediately. Mickey might be hesitant to touch him, but that doesn’t stop Ian from feeling like the kitchen boy might just kick his ass one of these days at one of Ian’s more outlandish suggestions.

He jumps up onto a low garden wall, and asks, “What’s your problem with the ball?” Because Mickey definitely has a problem with it. Ever since it’s been announced, he’s been all kinds of disagreeable—well, more so than usual.

“The fuck are you talking about? It’s just a ball. I don’t have a problem with it.” Mickey kicks a stone on the pathway. “It’s just a stupid party for all you lords and ladies to frolic about like a bunch of dumbasses, while I’m forced to rush around, making sure the wine doesn’t stop flowing and the bread basket is never empty.” Mickey snorts, and Ian gives hime a sidelong glance from his position on the wall.

Because it hadn’t occurred to Ian until right in that moment that Mickey wouldn’t be _attending_ the ball, he’d be working it. Mickey would huff up and stalk off if Ian admitted it, something about Ian’s privileges and how he, “never _fucking_ thinks about that shit.” Ian tries to defend himself, though, because it’s just that he doesn’t see Mickey as any lower than himself and it’s easy to forget that, in the eyes of society, that’s not how things are at all. They are as far apart as the sun and the moon, and there’s nothing that can close that distance.

Ian hums thoughtfully for a moment, before jumping down from the wall and clapping a hand on Mickey’s shoulder. “I’ll be sure to spend the whole night eating bread, then. Keep you busy.”

When Mickey shoves him off this time, it’s a little bit harder than the last, but Ian still laughs, anyway.

*

Ian’s siblings, friends, valets, and really anyone who gets the chance to know him, would call him impulsive. Once he has an idea, he tends to run with it, consequences be damned, and _fuck_ if he doesn’t have an idea now.

(Sometimes Ian thinks about the etiquette tutor he had as a child, and how much she would abhor the language Mickey has introduced him to).

The unfortunate part of Ian’s plan is that it all hinges on Lip, who is generally on board with most of Ian’s ideas but is always far too inquisitive and suspicious about them for Ian’s liking.

“I think you should expand the invitations for the ball,” Ian suggests one day as they both dodge their afternoon lessons—Lip to go off and do lord knows what, and Ian with plans to steal Mickey away from whatever duties he’s been assigned to that day.

“Yeah?” Lip quirks an eyebrow. “I thought the invitations traveled well outside our borders, farther than they ever go for Frank’s diplomacy.” They both share a look—diplomacy, as much as the King pretends at it, is not their kingdom’s strong point.

“No, no,” Ian dismisses, “Not beyond our borders, but within. We always invite the court, and the lords and ladies of the land. But why not also extend the invitations to other citizens? The ones who do not usually have the same opportunities?”

Lip comes to a standstill, pivoting slowly on the toe of his boot to give Ian a searching, suspicious look. He does his best not to flinch under the scrutiny.

“You want me to invite _peasants_ to the ball?” Lip sneers. “Why in the world would I do that? More importantly, why do _you_ want me to do that?”

Ever since Ian and Mickey became friends, there has been a part of Ian that has wanted to tell Lip—to share that secret with him. Before Mickey, Lip was Ian’s best friend in the world, and they shared everything with each other. Now, Ian has more secrets from his brother than he can count on both hands. Mickey is not a secret that he can share, not with the way Lip looks down his nose at anyone without a title before their name.

“Because Frank seems to think that simply holding a ball for the wealthy and titled will put an end to the uprisings, but what better way to appease them than to let them know that we do not consider ourselves above them?” Ian reasons. It’s not a lie, even if it’s not Ian’s true intention.

“But we do consider ourselves above them,” Lip responds with a grin, and Ian scowls at him.

“Must that be public knowledge? I thought you of all people were smarter than that.”

Lip’s amusement sharpens into something much more dangerous, and Ian has to fight against the urge to grin at his success.

“Besides, I’ve seen you trailing behind the florist’s daughter like some lost puppy. Cleaned up and dressed fine, no one would question a prince asking her for a dance or out into the gardens for a walk,” Ian comments casually, and Lip huffs and drags a hand through his hair.

“I’ll think on it,” he finally responds, and then stalks off down the corridor. Ian waits until he’s gone from sight before grinning and bouncing on his toes, and then he turns and makes his way to the stables.

*

Two days after Ian has planted the suggestion, and only five days before the event, Lip declares that invitations are to be sent to every household in the capital city, whether the resident bears a title or not. It causes a heated argument with the King that ends with Fiona stepping in and Lip ultimately getting his way.

Which, in turn, is Ian getting his.

“You did _what?_ ” Mickey asks that night as they sit near the hearth in the kitchen, eyebrows furrowed. “What the fuck—how in the world—I don’t— _why?_ ” Mickey finally settles on, voice incredulous and too loud for the late hour. They both go still and silent, shooting glances around, straining for the sound of approaching footsteps or voices, but nothing comes.

“What do you mean, why? So you could attend, of course,” Ian states as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, waiting for Mickey to thank him, or praise him for his puppetry, or _something_. He is not expecting Mickey to stare at him like he’s crazy.

“The fuck made you think I wanted to go to the ball?”

Ian’s excited smile falls off his face.

“D-don’t you?” Ian asks, unsure for the first time since that day in the garden when he’d come up with the idea in the first place.

“No,” Mickey replies emphatically, looking disgusted at the mere prospect. “I told you, it’s just a bunch of primped and polished assholes dancing around like idiots. Just because you got your brother to invite the peasants doesn’t fucking change that. If anything, it makes it fucking worse. Now you got dozens of girls thinking they got a chance with the prince when he’s just using them for fucking _sport_.”

 _You never fucking thing of these things, Ian_.

That’s what Mickey always tells him, and, apparently, Mickey is always right.

“I…” Ian looks away, wringing his hands and dropping his chin to his chest. “I just wanted it to be a night for everyone.”

Silence stretches for a moment, and then Ian starts as Mickey’s hand lightly touches his elbow.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Mickey says, but his voice is gentle. “Well-meaning, but an idiot. There’s a lot wrong with this fucking kingdom, and you can’t fix it with a ball.” And then Mickey flicks Ian rather pointedly in the forehead, all traces of kindness gone. “Don’t think like your piece-of-shit father.”

Ian looks over at Mickey, ready to retaliate against the flicking, but there’s a warmth in Mickey’s eyes that Ian’s seen before. Not often, but it’s definitely been there. Mickey’s hand is on his elbow again, and he gives it a squeeze. “You’re better than that.”

*

When the day of the ball finally dawns, Ian’s exuberance over the whole affair has dwindled to nearly nonexistent. Even the hectic nature of the palace as the staff bustles about making last minute preparations isn’t enough to work up his excitement, and he doesn’t go to the windows and watch the ships from far off lands pull into their harbor nor the way carriages start to line up at the front gate, winding through town like some elaborate parade. Even as his valets dress him that evening, the most Ian can muster is a polite smile, and that’s more because it’s expected of him than anything else.

Lip’s coming-of-age ball may just be a party, but Frank was sure to stress the fact that diplomacy was not to be forgotten. After all, the ball was host to princes and princesses, and lords and ladies, from every neighboring kingdom and beyond, and Frank would not allow them to see all the weaknesses that currently plague their kingdom and family.

Ian had had to bite his cheek to keep from snorting in derision. As if a smile could fool any visitor to the unrest in their kingdom, especially when the peasantry would also be in attendance. If a foreigner did so much as speak to one, they would uncover all the cracks in Frank’s rule that he tries to hide behind his charisma and misdirects.

But it is not the diplomatic aspect of the ball that has Ian’s spirits down. It’s a mixture of guilt from what Mickey had told him, and largely the disappointment and sadness that he is not able to spend the ball with the one person he most desired to. Mickey wanted nothing more to do with it than what was required of him.

“Then again, you’re the prince. You could always demand I attend, _Your Highness_ ,” Mickey had said to him, voice cold and challenging, and Ian had responded with silence.

Now, as guests flood into the grand ballroom, every attendant announced whether they bear a title or not, Ian can see Mickey flitting about with the other servants by the banquet table even from his required position by the King. Mickey is dressed finer than Ian has ever seen him, and Ian wonders if he just wasn’t _looking_ at the other ones or—

Or if, perhaps, this is Mickey’s first ball _entirely_. Their political gatherings tend to be much smaller affairs, requiring much smaller staff, and Mickey isn’t exactly among the top ranks of the household. He’s too mouthy, even now, but Ian also knows that he bakes the best pastries out of the entire kitchen staff, and they keep him down there because he’s so _good_ at it.

It’s actually a wonder that they don’t have Mickey down there now. Perhaps it is too late in the evening for baking bread.

*

Ian decides that the entire capital on top of all the kingdoms originally invited is just _too many_ people. By the time everyone has been introduced, Ian is sure the ball should be ending, but Lip is taking to the floor with the princess of… Loitia? Ian can’t even fucking remember at this point. It is custom, after all, for a royal to open the ball with the first dance.

While most of the crowd is preoccupied watching Lip dance about, Ian slips away from Frank’s watchful eyes. He does his best to avoid walking straight through the admiring crowd, because all the fake adoration that’s directed his way because of his position has always made him uncomfortable. He thinks it probably has something to do with being so close with someone who never treats Ian like he’s any different for being a prince.

But his attempts at stealth fail. He’s stopped dozens of times by princesses, ladies, and women he’s never seen before. And he greets them, ensures they are enjoying themselves, and excuses himself as soon as is polite but before any of them try to wrangle him into a dance. By the time he’s made it to the tables laden with food, the ball is in full swing, the dance floor crowded with couples and his brother already nowhere to be found.

Ian is not even remotely surprised.

He tries to seem as casual as possible, acting like he’s interested in the elaborately plated deviled eggs as his eyes scan the rows and rows of tables for Mickey. It doesn’t take long for Ian to find him, and when he does, he’s not alone. Mickey is speaking, rather quickly, to a woman with her back to Ian. Based on what Ian can see on Mickey’s face, he seems distressed over whatever the woman is saying to him, and Ian is walking over before he can help himself.

“Miss, are you having trouble with something?” Ian asks in his most princely voice, and both Mickey and the stranger turn to face him. Mickey is alarmed at first, but it quickly darkens into aggravation. Ian’s eyes widen, and he’s about to say something further when a gasp draws his attention away.

“Your Highness,” the young lady spits out in surprise, and then she’s dipping into one of the lowest curtsies Ian has ever seen. As used to it as Ian is, the gesture suddenly makes him feel flustered. He blames Mickey’s presence and his sudden alert attention.

As the lady straightens, Ian notices that her dress isn’t quite as nice as many of the other attendants, her hair not as elegantly styled. He also notices that she refuses to meet his eyes.

A pregnant pause follows, where not one of them says something, and just as Ian decides that politeness dictates he should be the one to speak, Mickey says in a stilted, cold voice, “Everything is fine, Your Majesty. Please do enjoy the ball.”

The lady glances at Mickey in confusion, and something that Ian thinks might be fear, and Ian just grins easily as he bats away Mickey’s objection.

“Everything does not appear to be fine. Here we have a young lady without an escort. Or am I assuming too much?” Ian looks at her, his most charming grin in place, and it nearly slips completely off his face as the lady finally looks at him.

Her eyes are a startling shade of blue, made that much more off-putting by the fact that the color is familiar. Ian looks over to Mickey, who’s face is turned away in shame.

“Oh, no, but Your Highness—”

Ian turns back to face her, heart becoming heavy and throat becoming tight, and holds out his arm.

“You are at a ball, my lady, and you do it a disservice if you do not dance at least once. Won’t you do me the honor?”

Ian can’t see Mickey’s face, focused instead on the dumbfounded lady before him, but he can feel Mickey’s searching gaze.

The lady says nothing, instead shooting her own disbelieving look at Mickey before she sets her hand gently on Ian’s extended arm. Ian thinks instantly of how Mickey touches him, his work-hardened hands always hesitant and gentle like Ian is something delicate.

As Ian leads the lady out onto the floor, whispers already buzzing up around them from every direction, he looks back at Mickey, who is staring at Ian like he’s never seen the prince before.

*

The ball roars past midnight, and then trickles to an end closer to dawn, but Ian loses his dancing partner relatively early in the night. Once she gets over her surprise and finds her feet on the dance floor, it isn’t hard to get her to talk to him. The conversation doesn’t stray from superficial topics, although he does learn her name (Mandy) and that she comes from town, that she doesn’t know _any_ of the dances (but is an amazingly quick learner), and that the last thing she’d expected that night was to meet anyone from the royal family, much less _dance_ with one of them.

But hedge as he might, she always directs the conversation away from her home life, and her family, and the only real clue Ian gets is when she excuses herself to leave, claiming she wasn’t supposed to be there in the first place.

Even though Ian knows the ball will continue for hours, he slips away from the revelry not long after Mandy takes her leave, and only because he does not find Mickey anywhere in the ballroom. As the guest count dwindles, so do the servants attending, and for one of the first times, Ian has no idea where to find his best friend. It’s frustrating beyond belief that he can’t just _ask_ —but Mickey is just one of the many kitchen boys, and how could someone such as Ian know his name?

So Ian goes to the only place he’s ever met Mickey in the late hours of the night—the kitchen. It’s a gamble, considering the fires could very well still be going, the staff still keeping the tables heavily laden with food, and Ian has no business being anywhere near there. How could he possibly explain himself? But luck, somehow, is on his side that night. The kitchens are dark, and still, and Mickey is laid on a cot by the hearth’s side, fast asleep.

Or seemingly. When the heavy door closes behind Ian and he lights one of the oil lamps, he can see the way Mickey’s entire body tenses. Not so asleep, after all.

“Turning in early?” Ian asks, voice lower than it’s been all evening. The ballroom had been so loud, he had nearly lost his voice trying to hold a conversation with Mandy.

“It’s long past midnight,” Mickey responds, voice gruff, eyes still closed. “Not all of us have the luxury of sleeping into the afternoon.”

“With the entire royal family asleep until lunch time, why is there need to wake so early? Who will you be making breakfast for?” Ian’s voice turns playful as he draws closer, setting the lamp down on the stone floor.

But Mickey’s voice is tired and resigned as he says, “You know it doesn’t fucking work that way.”

Ian says nothing in response, and instead settles gingerly at the foot of Mickey’s cot, making him grumble in annoyance. He stares into the darkness of the kitchens, playing with his hands, before saying, “She was your sister, wasn’t she?”

Mickey doesn’t make a sound.

“The one you speak so often about.” Its the only part of Mickey’s family life that he ever willingly talks about—well, as willingly as Mickey gets about _anything_ involving his life. He never said how much he missed her, but Ian could always tell just in the way he spoke about her.

“…she shouldn’t have come here,” Mickey finally volunteers, voice a harsh whisper. “She shouldn’t have…” He makes a frustrated noise and sits up, hands in his hair. “That fucking idiot.”

Ian doesn’t ask why. He doesn’t ask if it’s the first time Mickey has seen her since he was sold away to the palace. He doesn’t ask what they were talking about, or why Mickey seemed so angry—why he’s still so angry, even now.

“Her dress was lovely,” Ian says instead. “She made it herself, did you know? She’s quite handy with a needle, especially on such short notice.” Ian looks at Mickey, who is staring at him steadily. “She’s a lovely young lady.”

“You didn’t need to fucking do that,” Mickey hisses. “Spend your whole night with her, dancing with her, you didn’t—she doesn’t need your fucking pity, all right? _I_ don’t need it, either. So just fuck off back to your party, Ian.”

Ian draws away, taken-aback at first before a small smile starts to play on his lips.

“I left when she did. I have no intention of going back,” Ian states plainly. “I’ve never much enjoyed dancing around with princesses or ladies, more concerned with what I am than _who_ I am. Your sister was much different, however.” He sets his chin on his palm, and then tips his head in Mickey’s direction. “It was quite refreshing. If I hadn’t seen the resemblance, the way she spoke so openly to me would have alerted me to your relationship immediately. I… I had a lot more fun than I usually do at such occasions. Certainly more fun than I expected to have.”

Again, Mickey doesn’t respond, letting his silence do all of the talking instead. Ian thinks maybe one day he’ll actually get Mickey to express whatever gratefulness he feels, but he thinks so long as Ian’s title keeps them separated, that day will be far, far into the future.

“Isn’t that what’s expected of you?” Mickey asks once enough time has passed. “Dancing with princesses and shit?”

“I suppose,” Ian muses. “But I have no interest in dancing with the ladies of the court,” he continues, choosing his words carefully, and then looks as pointedly as he can in Mickey’s direction. But Mickey just looks back at him blankly, and Ian nearly starts laughing. “Never mind,” he says with a shake of his head, and then bounces to his feet, pivoting to face Mickey and holds out his hand. “How about you dance with me, instead?”

“…are you fucking with me?” Mickey’s eyebrows skew up, and he stares at Ian’s outstretched hand like it’s a joke.

“Not even a little,” Ian replies in an even voice.

“There is no fucking way—” Mickey starts, but Ian just grabs him and yanks him to his feet, making him stumble forward. “Ian, I am not fucking dancing with you.”

“What do you call this, then?”

“You forcing me out of bed against my fucking will, hey!—”

Ian grabs tightly to Mickey’s hand, and, ignoring his protests, says, “I’ll lead.”

“The fuck you will!”

“Be quiet,” Ian hisses around a laugh, and shakes Mickey’s arms to loosen the tension in them. “You don’t know the dances. You can lead next time,” Ian says simply, throat tightening at even mentioning a next time. He thinks if he ever gets Mickey to dance with him again, it will be a gift from the gods.

They’re too far from the ballroom to hear any music, so as Ian starts to lead Mickey in the clumsiest waltz possible (he isn’t nearly as quick to learn as Mandy), they dance to no music. Which probably isn’t making it any easier, but Ian pushes on anyway. He’s surprised that Mickey is actually going along with this, but maybe it’s his silent way of thanking Ian somehow. Even if he does keep his eyes on the ground, and on his feet, the entire time.

“So why the fuck are we doing this?” Mickey finally asks in a mumble. “Why are you dancing with _me?_ ”

“Practice,” Ian replies easily, wondering if Mickey might make good on that threat to hurt him if he tried to twirl him.

“The ball’s over.”

“There’s always the next one. You can never be too prepared, after all.”

Ian doesn’t know why it’s so hard for him to say, “I just wanted to dance with _you_.” Somehow, that feels like too big a thing to speak into the quiet of the kitchen and the empty space between them. 

**Author's Note:**

> [read, reblog, & like on tumblr](http://missmichellebelle.tumblr.com/post/118005714230/a-ball-by-any-other-name-is-just-a-party)


End file.
